


the desert became the ocean (you saw the world reborn)

by sassy_ninja



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Blind Character, Canon Era, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Feel-good, Flowers, French Revolution, Happy Ending, I Don't Even Know, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mild Blood, Podcast, Post-Canon, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_ninja/pseuds/sassy_ninja
Summary: The revolution of 1832 is a success. The Republic blooms from the ashes from the monarchy with Enjolras at its helm, but there is work and more work still to do. No longer a revolutionary, but a leader of the state, Enjolras still has his secrets except instead of cartridges and political pamphlets every month he travels down to a house Provence with a garden full of flowers and a man made of sunlight. No matter what, there are two constants that will always remain the same: Enjolras loves Courfeyrac and the light will shine through the hand of the oppressor onto the truth.then,a hundred and eighty-eight years after the revolution, three historians discuss the nature of Enjolras and Courfeyrac's relationship.
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ahah apparently I'm determined to singlehandedly fill out the courfeyrac/enjolras tag..... maybe quarantine is getting to me but I couldn't stop thinking abt this idea until I wrote this. I rlly like thinking abt what enjolras would be like when he gets older, I don't think he'll ever become more moderate (and the idea that all ppl get more conservative as they get older is just.... immensely problematic just look at Jeremy corbyn or Bernie sanders and start holding old ppl to account for their views instead of just blaming it on natural progression.... anyways sidetracked....) but I do like the idea that he becomes mellower and more chill in his personality? idk lemme know what u think abt his characterisation lol.

The carriage rumbles to a halt outside the house and that alone is enough to make Enjolras smile. The wisteria has just begun to bud, it will certainly be beautiful when he visits again later in spring.

The maid is already rushing out of the house to greet him and he dips his hat at her before he turns to pay for the carriage. The Provence sun is already too warm for his overcoat and hat, he can feel the sweat building just behind his collar as he carries his trunk even though it is mostly empty.

“I’ll just go in to get Courfeyrac,” she chirps once she is certain Enjolras can manage on his own.

“No need,” Courfeyrac’s voice comes rushing towards them and a smile blooms over Enjolras’ face before he can even help himself, “I heard the carriage coming down the road – can you believe it, Hélène? A minister of state come to visit humble Monsieur Courfeyrac.”

“I visited you only three weeks ago,” Enjolras replies wryly, clasping their hands together and pulling him in for bisous.

“The minister is certainly generous with his time,” Courfeyrac teases even more, smile widening as he links their arms together and they walk towards the house, “but not quite generous enough, three weeks apart is already far too long.”

They leave the trunk in the guest bedroom, one that is often used although Enjolras himself has never slept in that bed, pretences must be kept up somehow as Courfeyrac always reminds him even though Hélène is more than clear on the true nature of their relationship by now. She’s the one that reads Enjolras’ letters to Courfeyrac after all, and more importantly the one who takes dictation for the letters back.

Courfeyrac is careful when he takes Enjolras’ coat, draping it over the back of a chair before he takes his hand and pulls him closer. Warm, always warm, Enjolras thinks dazedly they stand pressed together, Courfeyrac absentmindedly running his hands through Enjolras’ hair.

Their kisses are slow and languid, like the south is, warm but not necessarily with heat. There is time for that, but not now, not when they have the whole weekend to waste away together. Although he may be proven wrong as Courfeyrac is already slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat and untucking his shirt to press his hands against Enjolras’ stomach. He smiles through the kiss and Courfeyrac notices, nipping at his bottom lip.

“What are smiling at, Enjolras?” he whispers against his neck, clever fingers already having undone his cravat and Enjolras not wanting to be left behind does the same.

He finds it only a little amusing that the first thing Courfeyrac had done after he left hospital was learn how to tie a cravat blind, a dandy to his core, still, Enjolras thinks that his twenty-five-year-old self would have been shocked at the way thirty-five-year-old Courfeyrac walks around with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his waistcoat only half buttoned. His cravat though is still always impeccably knotted, even in the heat, it is almost enough to make Enjolras laugh out loud.

“I have missed you,” he replies, leaning back so that he can look at Courfeyrac’s face, the beginning of laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, his skin golden from the Provence sun and his milky eyes still breathtakingly intense. He is content like this, he thinks, as Courfeyrac turns to press a kiss on his palm.

“Well, let me show you what you have missed,” Courfeyrac grins again, pushing him backwards until they both end up tumbling onto the bed. Enjolras does laugh then, pulling him closer and closer until he is not quite sure where he ends and Courfeyrac begins.

* * *

Once they are spent and lie for far too long idling in bed together, Courfeyrac insists that they go out to the garden. It’s his pride and joy after all, especially now in the middle of spring when all the flowers have begun to finally bloom.

“It smells wonderous,” he says with a smile, pulling Enjolras along with interlinked fingers, “I can imagine it looks beautiful as well. Hélène – bless her – insists on taking me around and describing each flower in excruciating detail. I may be blind, but I am indeed not a fool, I do remember what tulips look like, but ah she persists and I keep her happy.”

“It is wonderful indeed,” Enjolras says quietly when they step outside, breathing in the soft earthy smell of the ground and the spring flowers. The blooms tumble out from the flowerbeds and onto the paths, the opposite of the neat lines of a bourgeoisie garden. It is somehow inextricably Courfeyrac and that alone is enough to make Enjolras smile again.

They sit together on a wooden bench, hidden from view of the house by the heavy blooms of a cluster of magnolia trees, fingers intertwined. It is quiet apart from the high chatter of birds and Courfeyrac’s low voice, talking about the new project he has been working on with Hélène, a book that he hopes to publish in the coming years, but is still keeping the contents secret from even Enjolras.

He stops for a moment, closing his eyes with pleasure and basking in the sun almost cat-like. You can still see the scars that trace their way across his eyelids and down to his cheeks, now just faded to white lines. Enjolras remembers that day, amongst the irrepressible joys of victory there had been a sudden and piercing shouting. Someone had grabbed Enjolras by the arm and dragged him over to where Courfeyrac was being carried away, blood dripping down from between his fingers where they were clutched around his face and shattered glass all around him.

A member of National Guard had grabbed a broken bottle from the ground and slashed him across the face just as victory had been in their grasp. Blinded just before the night had ended, he never saw the dawn break one last time. Although his sight has come back somewhat now, he can tell light from dark, see shadows of movement. It has been a long time since then, the small victories are what Enjolras treasures the most nowadays.

“You are meant to be looking at the flowers not at me. I can tell when you’re staring – you go all quiet and still,” Courfeyrac says, teasing once more and Enjolras jolts out of his memories, “I’m aware that I am devastatingly handsome, but I have worked terribly hard on his garden you know.”

“I know,” Enjolras smiles softly, pulling him in for another warm kiss, “I cannot resist though, you are certainly the more beautiful than all the flowers here.”

Courfeyrac mumbles something vaguely witty in response, but heat is already rising in his cheeks and he buries his face in Enjolras’ shoulder. It is rather funny that through all these years they have been together, all that is needed to make Courfeyrac blush like a virgin is for Enjolras to give him a sweet compliment. He makes sure that he does not abuse that power all too often, but still it is rather a nice one to have. 

They sit together a while longer in a comfortable silence, Courfeyrac pulling Enjolras’ hand into his lap so that he can fiddle with his fingers. Although the Republic is more than he could have ever dreamed of, at times he still keenly feels the loss of Courfeyrac by his side. There are times in debates where he almost expects him to chime in after another one of Enjolras’ thunderous rebuttals with some other perfectly formed witticism, just scathing enough to cut down any critic but not so harsh that he gains an enemy. It is a skill that Courfeyrac seemed to have mastered at twenty that Enjolras struggles to refine even now after ten years in politics.

He does come at least to Paris once every half year or so to give an incendiary speech reminding everyone that he is just as sharp and revolutionary as he always has been. It is a pleasant reminder for everyone to keep on their toes, that there is no room for complacency in government and no government too lofty to be brought down.

He stays in Provence for the majority of the time, it seems to suit him more than the grey of Paris ever did. It had not been his first choice though, back when he had just been released from hospital and the world around him had been terrifying in its darkness and uncertainty. Any loud noise had been enough to send him spiralling into a panic and his friends quickly learned that a sudden hand on his shoulder would result in a punch in the face. He had been angry and resentful, felt like he was being shipped off to a country house whilst the rest of them were to finish the building of the Republic that he had sacrificed everything for.

The guilt still burns in Enjolras’ chest sometimes even though Courfeyrac has long forgiven him. How could he have sent his lover away when he needed him most? It was necessary, a sacrifice for the greater good, but sometimes he still rereads the letters Courfeyrac had sent – angry, messy and verging on incoherence. It is a reminder of all that he has given up for all that he has worked for.

“You are getting grey hairs,” he remarks quietly, running a hand through Courfeyrac’s hair and gets a vicious scowl in response.

“Do not remind me, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac wrinkles his nose like a petulant child, “I am growing dreadfully old, I am thirty-six this year, you are almost thirty-five. We are all practically ancient! You know Marius and his darling wife, Cosette, visited me last week and they brought their children – plural, they have three already! Can you even imagine? Why I can remember the time we first met, he was barely more than a boy come to Paris with not even a place to sleep, and now with children who are old enough to read and write!”

“Jehan is married now too, Combeferre, Bahorel, Grantaire, Feuilly – all of them have children,” Enjolras muses with a quiet smile, “how much we have changed over the years.”

“Truly, it seems as if apart from Jolllly, Bossuet and Musichetta who still have their Saint-Simonian relationship going, we are the only unmarried ones,” Courfeyrac smiles up at him wistfully, a little longingly. He’d talked before about wanting to get married, a loud declaration of his love for everyone to hear, but that at least is still out of their reach even in the Republic.

“We are already married in the eyes of everyone but the law,” Enjolras replies quietly but with great certainty, intertwining their hands so that their matching rings touch together, “although, my secretary insists on telling me all of the gossip in Parliament and people seem to believe I have a pretty little mistress who has me running down south every few weeks.”

“Ah the scandal,” Courfeyrac grins, melancholy gone once more. He presses a dramatic hand to his chest and leans back onto Enjolras’ shoulder as if he was in the theatre, “tell your husband, Monsieur Minister, who is that pretty little mistress?”

“Well she has a beautiful house in Provence,” he starts, smiling slowly and twining one of Courfeyrac’s curls around his finger, “and a garden that would rival any up and down the country. She is dreadfully fussy about her clothes though, always insisting I bring down the latest Parisian fashions when I visit.”

“Is she really that pretty though?” Courfeyrac purrs, twisting so that he can kiss his way down Enjolras’ jaw, “aren’t there any women in Paris that can rival her?”

He just hums thoughtfully in response until Courfeyrac swats at his head and he laughs, pressing a kiss onto his temple and wrapping an arm around his waist, “the most beautiful person I have ever had the pleasure to meet, what is more her soul shines so clearly out of her person that she simply exudes more warmth than the sun. Even after ten years you only seem to shine brighter every day, my dear Courfeyrac.”

“I don’t think your mistress will be very happy with that,” he grins, finally pulling Enjolras down so that he can kiss him on the lips again, “but I am – I am always extraordinarily happy when you visit me.”

The ‘I only wish you could stay’ remains unsaid, something that even Courfeyrac would not ask of him. Perhaps one day, when Enjolras is too old for politics anymore, when there are younger and bolder politicians there to take up his mantle, he will finally come down to Provence for good. For now though, in just one day’s time he will have to return to Paris, away from Courfeyrac’s warm touches once more. His heart aches as much as it did the first time and he presses his face into Courfeyrac’s neck for comfort.

There is work still to be done, poverty and injustice have their claws deep in France and the wounds from their removal do not heal easily. He sighs and Courfeyrac pulls him up for another kiss and another and another, until they end up sprawled across the bench in a daze.

“I love you,” Enjolras whispers against Courfeyrac’s hair, “in a way that I never thought I could love anything apart from the Republic, a way that I could only ever love you.”

“I love you too,” Courfeyrac murmurs, smiling softly, “let us stay here for a little while longer, until the sun sets.”

And they do. The sun casts a golden glow across the garden but even when it is gone Enjolras is not cold, not when he has Courfeyrac pressed to his side. They walk back to the house together, Courfeyrac leading him through the twilight. He is perfectly content, he thinks as Courfeyrac turns to kiss him one last time before they step back inside. He smiles against his lips in the darkness, ah when they are together there is always warmth, there is always light. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the spring of 2020 three historians record an episode of their podcast: Les Amis de l'Histoire, an uninspired play on words from the revolutionary group that managed to change France forever. In this week's episode they will be discussing Enjolras' personal life - especially his relationship with fellow revolutionary, Courfeyrac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so basically in one of the very many research rabbit holes I've been on this past week I recently become re-enraged by the fact that historians basically see the past through a modern homophobic lens. they pretend that just bc society was 'more homophobic' back then it wasn't possible for ppl to be gay as if lgbt ppl don't exist today in some of the most homophobic places on earth? no they wouldn't have used the same words that we do today but the lgbt community has always existed throughout human history and no amount of homophobic historians can stop that from being true. also u know what concepts didn't exist throughout history but we continue to use them anyways: countries, nation states, race, the list is literally endless ppl need to stop using that shit as an excuse for homophobia. ok rant over but essentially this is my exploration of what historians would've made of enjolras if the revolution had succeeded bc screw it why the fuck not also I've started to listen to podcasts and I hate it

JOHN: now today on this week’s edition of our podcast, Les Amis de l’Histoire, we will be discussing the life and relationships of a certain very controversial character in history. Julien Enjolras, the ‘Father’ of the French Republic. Law student turned revolutionary turned politician, really what a guy. As usual I’m joined by our two favourite historians, Dr Simon Durand and Professor Marie Moreau – let’s get started.

SIMON: well any description of Enjolras feels a little bit fake. Not only did he lead the revolution that killed the king _again_ , but also built what could be considered the first truly democratic nation state at a little more than twenty-five, his structures of government have lasted essentially unchanged until today. His government was so radically different to the rest of Europe at the time that France was forced to fend off several invasions from England, Germany and even Russia.

MARIE: don’t forget his foreign policy as well, when he was in government, he pushed an anti-colonial policy more radical than anything we’ve seen since. Without him we might have seen the entire world carved up between European powers, but he instead he managed to build such strong relationships with several African empires that they were able to keep European powers from invading and dividing the majority of the continent.

J: today we’re going to dive into the personal life of Julien Enjolras. Certainly, a mysterious man, described by his contemporaries as a ‘priest of his ideals’, he never married or had children and when he died in 1875, he donated all of his property and money to the state. Now tell me Simon, what do you make of this?

S: John, his personal life was definitely one that was and still is shrouded in mystery. Enjolras was described as almost breathtakingly beautiful, it’s in almost every description of him whether from friends or enemies, no matter the context to point where it’s almost a bit ridiculous. _And_ as one of the most powerful and influential men in France he would’ve been fending off marriage proposals left and right, but he never married and apart from a few debunked rumours apparently never had any mistresses. I think when we think of celibacy we think of old men and monks, but this was a man who was celibate for his ideals, truly the greatest leader France never had.

M: yes, there’s quite a lot of evidence that he wasn’t attracted to women and never had a relationship with one, but I don’t think that eliminates the possibility of him ever being in a romantic relationship at all. He had several very close relationships with male friends, most notably with his fellow revolutionary turned writer, Michel Courfeyrac. If you read the letters that they sent each other, it’s quite hard to believe that there was never something between them. Especially not when Enjolras would reportedly travel down to Courfeyrac’s house in Provence every month for his entire working life and eventually move there permanently after his retirement. People even thought that Enjolras had a secret mistress because he would visit Courfeyrac so much.

S: Marie you have to remember that the times were different back then, they certainly had a Romantic friendship, that is capital R, but we can’t look at a relationship from over a hundred years ago through a modern lens. That’s simply how many male friendships were back then, especially in the height of the Romantic era.

M: but there’s evidence. I’m sure you’ve read the letters and you can see just how different they are to letters that they write with their other friends. Enjolras and his deputy, Benôit Combeferre had a textbook Romantic friendship (capital R), but the letters they wrote were nowhere like those between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They were clearly love letters.

J: let me just read some extracts of those controversial letters, firstly from Enjolras to Courfeyrac: ‘Paris is frightfully cold, I do so miss the warmth of your touch. No matter how much coal I may burn it does not help release for the chill is in my soul, but your embrace would warm me even in the depths of winter.’

S: see there’s nothing explicitly homosexual about that. It’s pretty much textbook Romantic writing (capital R). Of course, I sound crazy saying that, but just read other letters from the time, this kind of friendship between men wasn’t that uncommon, especially in the circles they ran in.

M: Enjolras was famously blunt with his words though. His speeches about politics are legendary for their finely crafted metaphors, but you can see in his letters to his other friends that he rarely bothered to do that otherwise.

J: well let’s read Courfeyrac’s letters back, they are – uh, explicit would be the right word: ‘Enjolras I cannot focus on writing for my every thought returns to you, your lips, your neck and the wonderous line of your back. It has only been two weeks since we last met and I can barely contain myself, Hélène has grown tired of my pining and has taken to throwing her embroidery at me, but I cannot stop. My soul aches without you as if it has been ripped in two. There is something else that aches for you as well, something that I think you will greatly enjoy when you next visit.’

M: well that last sentence… probably the closest thing we’ll get to sexting in the 19thcentury.

[laughter]

S: in all seriousness though that could simply be joking between friends.

J: normally I’m inclined to be sceptical as well but come on even for the most Romantic friendships (capital R) that would be too far.

M: he is literally talking explicitly about his penis, Simon. I don’t know what kind of jokes you have with your friends, but I definitely don’t wax poetic about how much my friends are going to enjoy my rock-hard dick next time we see each other.

[laughter]

J: no one take that soundbite out of context, oh my god.

[laughter]

S: well just a sentence before that he mentions his maid and lifelong companion Hélène, who stays by his side from when he is blinded in 1832 until his death in 1870, that’s almost fifty years of companionship. His leading biographers have said that they were in a long-term relationship, all the while he’s cheating on her with Enjolras? Right under her nose?

M: there’s so little evidence of that though, apart from the assumption that a man and a woman who live together have to be in a romantic relationship (lowercase r). Courfeyrac kept a few scattered diaries throughout his life and there is no evidence that they had anything other than a very strong friendship.

J: I will note that Courfeyrac was quite the playboy when he was younger. Before the 1832 revolution it was clear that he basically had someone new in his bed every week, he was notorious for it.

M: ah but after 1832 that stops. Now I can’t imagine that 19thcentury France was particularly easy to navigate for a blind man, especially for someone who we can now see suffered from PTSD symptoms for years afterwards, but he remained well integrated in society. He went to parties and visited Paris for speeches that had crowds of thousands gathered to hear. Not to mention he was still reportedly very handsome, devastatingly charming and later in life became the most popular political writer in France. But still there is _nothing_ to suggest that he ever tried to pursue a romantic relationship (lowercase r) with anyone other than with Enjolras. Both of them were certainly in high demand, a good marriage would have been all too easy to get, or even a small crowd of mistresses.

S: I don’t think that we’ll ever agree, Marie.

M: [sighing] no I don’t, unfortunately it seems as though your view of history is tainted through your inability to accept that the LGBT community existed in different forms throughout the past.

J: now, let’s not start a fight here. What about Enjolras’ later life, after he retires in 1866 he goes to live with Courfeyrac in Provence. That is also the same time that Courfeyrac’s health began to deteriorate rapidly. Could it be a coincidence? Or did he go back to take care of his lover?

M: I mean he certainly could have continued his political career for a few years after that, there was no real political motivations for him to step down specifically at that point.

S: although obviously at sixty-years-old already that is pretty impressive, especially for the time.

M: oh certainly, it’s impressive even now.

J: after Courfeyrac’s death though Enjolras pretty much just disappears. We have a few mentions of him from his various friends, most notably from Combeferre, who kept extensive diaries his entire life, but apart from that he never returns to Paris, never gets involved in politics again. Not a single public appearance in the last five years of his life.

M: it’s stark really, he was a firebrand in Parliament until his retirement, even afterwards he was still writing letters and giving speeches, but after 1870? Nothing.

J: It was also reported that he never stopped wearing his mourning black for the rest of his life, truly what a tragic end for him. He lived alone and died surrounded by his friends in Provence. In the very house that Courfeyrac had left to him after he died, actually, the one that they’d lived in together.

M: it’s still there in fact, it was maintained by the state and is now a wonderful little museum to the revolutionary group that changed France forever, Les Amis de l’ABC.

S: that’s something that at least we agree on, it is very beautiful. The garden apparently is still kept in the same way that Courfeyrac had it, very winding and whimsical. If any of our listeners are in Provence I would definitely recommend visiting.

J: and on that positive note we’ll end this week’s episode. So, were Courfeyrac and Enjolras ever in a romantic relationship?

M: don’t forget, lowercase r.

[laughter]

J: or was it simply Romantic, uppercase R? Well certainly we’ll never know for sure and as it’s pretty clear the academics are completely split as well. That was Les Amis de l’Histoire, we’ll be back next week for our episode on the Romantic poet, Jean Prouvaire. See you then!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his last days Enjolras sees Combeferre for the very last time and muses the idea of love and death. There is nothing left to do but to wait for the slow ticking of the clock to finally stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt kinda bad leaving this on a kinda sad ending so here is just a tiny bit extra of enjolras and combeferre being best buds until the end. I thought it would be an interesting way of having enjolras' story come to an end bc to a certain extent he knows whats coming in the same he does on the barricade, but he has the same hope for the future. in both ways he dies knowing that he gave his entire life for the republic and that it will rise/continue even after he dies. he never hesitates in his unwavering beliefs whether thats the republic or love.

He sits on his chair and stares out of the window, breath rattling its way out of his lungs unsteadily. The spring is beautiful, or at least it should be, but somehow even the rolling fields of Provence just feel like distractions, from what though Enjolras does not know. It has been so long since he has enjoyed the springtime, five years to be exact, five long years.

Time has not felt so long and slow for his entire lifetime, oh how the years used to fly by when he was a student, a revolutionary, a politician, a faithful husband. Well he supposes he still is the last one, rubbing the ring on his finger absentmindedly, but it is rather hard to be a good husband when the man you love is dead.

He sighs again, this time weaker, it always feels like his breath is getting weaker. No matter how many times Jehan’s son comes by and assures him that his body is still strong he knows that clear as the sky in the summer he is living his last few days on earth. It is funny that Jehan’s son of all people would become a doctor, his father is probably the only man on earth who would be disappointed that his child would take on a job like that. Still, he hides it well enough.

“Monsieur Enjolras, you have a visitor,” his maid calls in, loudly because his ears aren’t what they used to be and he nods, not taking his eyes off the window.

“Enjolras,” a voice comes that is so familiar it makes Enjolras turn and smile as Combeferre hobbles into the room, leaning heavily on his cane, “how are you today?”

“Tired,” he replies and Combeferre just scoffs as he eases himself down onto the chair next to him, “I am glad to see you one more time, my friend.”

“I thought you would say that,” says with a huff, but he understands what Enjolras is saying. He knows just as clearly what is coming, otherwise he would not have come down all the way to Provence to see him.

“I am simply ready for what the next step is,” Enjolras smiles softly, “I have fought my whole life and there is no strength within me to fight any longer, there has not been for a few years now. There are leaders stronger than me to lead France, structures in place to stop them if they ever turn away from service of the Republic, my work is done.”

“If you could have heard yourself say that when you were young,” Combeferre laughs, “you would not believe there was ever a moment you would stop fighting.”

“No – I would have laughed in my own face, but ah there was so much to do back then, now I am just counting down the days,” he says peaceably, “I have my dearest friend by my side, what is there to fear?”

“Nothing, there never has been,” and Enjolras laughs again, wheezing. They fall back into a comfortable silence again, staring out of the window together.

“There is something that someone said to me a long while ago, ‘to love someone is to see the face of God’,” Enjolras muses, touching his ring once more, “what lies beyond is not even unknown, I have loved Patria, I have loved my friends, I have loved my husband. Everything is clear to me now in the same way it has always been. I am not afraid, not any more than I was back on the barricades – there is a goal that I will walk towards with no fear and no hesitation.”

“To love,” Combeferre starts, voice trailing off slightly, “ah how Courfeyrac would be proud of you now.”

“He would be, he has always been the one who has taught me how to love,” he smiles just a touch once more, “do you have a message for him that you would like me to bring?”

“Only that he is a brat for going so soon and making us all miserable for so long,” Combeferre sighs, “anything else I will simply tell him myself – I don’t think that it will be too long before we all meet once more.”

“No, I am afraid not,” Enjolras sighs, staring into where the green fields blurred into the sky, “I am glad though to have the honour of growing old with all of you, my dearest friends. I used to be afraid that if I closed my eyes I would open them to find us all dead on the barricades, that we were simply a forgotten group of revolutionaries, but I know now that there was never any choice – we would always have been historic.”

Combeferre replies, but his voice is already fading out of focus. It is tiring to talk for so long, all Enjolras wants to do is close his eyes for just a few moments and rest for a while in the spring sunshine. That evening after they’ve dined together, he bids goodbye to Combeferre, but there is a certain finality to it. He will go soon, if not today then tomorrow, if not tomorrow then the day after that – there is no use in delaying it any longer than that. 

He rests for a moment in the armchair by the window, the stars are blurry where they once used to be clear, but he knows they are there as certain as the flowers will bloom again next spring. He does not remember closing his eyes, but there is a warm hand on his shoulder shaking him awake and all of a sudden, he does not feel quite so tired.

He stands and for the first time in years his legs no longer shake beneath him, the fields roll away from him clear and crisp. Everything fades behind him as he walks forwards. There leaning against the wall with all the care of a young dandy who has just arrived in Paris for the first time, Courfeyrac smiles back.

“It has been a long time,” he says and his voice is ringing and strong once more, but he barely notices as he steps forwards to cup Courfeyrac’s face in his hands and tenderly kiss him, “Combeferre wanted me to tell you that he thinks you are a brat for leaving us so soon.”

“It has been far too long,” Courfeyrac whispers, smiling, “I will have to apologise in person for that when we next meet, I’m sure that he will forgive me.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, leaning against Courfeyrac’s warmth and taking a deep breath, feeling the floor slowly fall away beneath his feet. He is not afraid, not when he has Courfeyrac in his arms. When he opens his eyes again, they are in a garden filled to the brim with flowers, sunlight warming his skin. He kisses Courfeyrac and there is light, always light.

**Author's Note:**

> sooo I hope u enjoyed something smaller and a bit lighter! its a goddamn miracle that I'm not writing angst bc its so easy to do w les mis..... T^T esp in canon era so yay for me! anyways if u enjoyed pls leave a comment and a kudo! it would mean a lot to me! I get a lot of my motivation from interaction on my fics which isn't the healthiest but also I crave validation so...... úwù


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